


we sleep like wine in the conches

by Radiolaria



Series: None waits for us like the horizon [1]
Category: Star Trek: Discovery
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Balcony Scene, Developing Relationship, F/F, Feelings Realization, First Kiss, Friendship, Friendship/Love, Love Confessions, Self-Discovery, platitudes about exploring and the call of the sea, sometimes the ladies are allowed to get the intense conversations about home and the stars
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-03
Updated: 2018-04-03
Packaged: 2019-04-17 23:03:03
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,899
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14199567
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Radiolaria/pseuds/Radiolaria
Summary: She is caught motionless before her captain, never close enough, or in a moment of immense speed, everywhere at once. She could be on her lips and she would not know.Got you.On a strange balcony, Michael and Philippa discuss the meaning of home and Michael goes on a journey of her own.





	we sleep like wine in the conches

**Author's Note:**

> This fic joyfully ignores that cursed line from episode 1x04.
> 
> A warm thank you to Milippa's herald, [nomisunrider](https://archiveofourown.org/users/nomisunrider/pseuds/nomisunrider), for the help.
> 
> Title from "Corona" by Paul Celan.
> 
> All remaining mistakes are mine.

Michael fusses in her ceremonial shroud, the sand caught between the fabric and the glass floor screeches underneath her and she stills in fear of waking up the party. As no one stirs, Michael heaves a sigh of relief. It is too late for their sleep cycles to be interrupted by such minute sounds.

_Or too early._

On the Shenzhou, Michael is awake at this hour, well into her briefing with Captain Georgiou over breakfast, but, here, the Geldian have a different rhythm of life. The meeting and party that the Captain, Dr. Nambue and she attended started late and ended later. They are expected to rest, together in the ceremonial sleeping hall, until the geldian equivalent of noon.

It’s 0531 by the ship’s clock and Michael will not sleep any longer. She may try to sneak a nap by the end of the morning, after a visit to the palace’s library, but committing to a proper geldian night is out of her reach for now, politeness be damned. Her heart is on the lookout and she cannot quite tell why.

Michael rises to her feet, wrapped in the rich fabric gifted by the hosts, and carefully treads between the sleeping bodies. In the darkness of the hall, she cannot distinguish where Nambue and Philippa are lying.  

The louvred doors running along the fifth side of the sleeping hall open on a wide balcony where only the thin cold reflection of the stars on the railing marks the absence of solid ground just four meters away. Under the unfamiliar far-off lights, the only distinction between the intricate obscured ceiling of the palace and the sky, she cannot see the horizon or the trees’ crown. It was a dark room; it is a darker night.

Over her shoulder, the guests are barely visible so scarce is the light, ambassadors, captains, civilians from various corners of the galaxy, all gathered to discuss flares menacing the system. Michael heavily leans against the railing, back turned to the rich gardens underneath. She cannot hear the wind in the leaves, but their scent is unmistakable, solid, spicy. On her right the rail runs away, following the palace’s face until the gates, farther than Michael’s eyes can trace in the dark. On her left—

Michael suspends her breathing as one would to taste the silence of a room. Six meters away, the captain is looking at her, similarly draped in the geldian shroud, elbows resting on the rail and, slowly, instinctively, Michael heads toward her.

Under the geldian light, softened by distance and wakefulness, Captain Georgiou’s face seems two-dimensional. Flats of grey, lines of black and the soft mass of her hair disappearing in the sky. Michael has never seen her friend’s face like that. The brightest spot there is in her eyes, in the distant reflection of the stars. She is smiling at Michael.

Georgiou does not offer a comment when Michael settles next to her, back against the railing. They study the night in silence, as if methodologically categorizing the subtle shades of blue announcing the birth of the day. Michael observes it on Philippa’s profile.

It is a tender mirror, one to which she is accustomed.

Her captain’s hand escapes the heavy drape, rubbing her eyes, before flying to her ponytail. Michael follows the familiar gestures: Philippa undoing her hair, combing them roughly, pulling them back at the nape and twisting them in a low bun.

“It will not hold.”

“We’re not talking about defenses,” Philippa groans, eyes darting to her, unable to conceal her delight for the quip Michael knows to border on insubordination. It is after hours, they cannot see each other’s face properly; anything goes. “We’re talking about my hair in the morning. It will hold.”

Michael represses the more sarcastic remark on the tip of her tongue and Philippa gives in to a mirthful smile.

Leaning in confidentially, she whispers, “I will bother the good doctor for hair pins when he’s up, if you worry that much about your senior officer looking like a disheveled Silkie before the Regent.”

The image makes Michael grin frankly; she has seen her captain in worse condition, in updos far more unbecoming and Philippa knows it very well. Crumbling governments made do; Philippa’s hair will not cause a diplomatic incident today.

“Nambue was elated over the opportunity to get a full night sleep on a weekday,” Michael muses, savouring the captain’s unusual lack of preparation. “He will not wake up before noon, Captain.”

“ _Why_ are you up? You insisted on honouring the local practices.”

“Sleeping for the better part of the day is not the most efficient way to study a culture, however rare the occasions to do so.”

She does not add that when she accepted the away mission she was acquainted with the geldian habits and hoped to sleep in the vicinity of Philippa. Past sleepovers, improvised or planned, revealed a particular fondness for her captain’s proximity in sleep, proximity that Michael tries to seek more often than she cares to admit.

_Her breathing follows a regular pattern that even Saru finds soothing._

Her unreasonable hopes were crushed at the onset of the sleeping ceremony, chaotic even by human standards —the cadence of chanting and spinning still rings in her ears—, during which Michael lost sight of Philippa long before the lights dimmed.

“Certainly the party last night offered you plenty of opportunities to get acquainted with the Geldian?” Michael is eased out of her reflections by Philippa’s tactful tone, inviting confidence rather than banter. “You seemed to have fun with Ambassador Erc and Captain Tte.”

Michael presses her lips together, thrown off by the diligent observation. The Regent monopolized Philippa’s and her naval homologues’ time for most of the evening, keeping them apart and barely in each other’s field of vision.

Parties are an inescapable side-effect of their profession that she does not taste particularly: celebrating merely provides a different setting for their daily tasks on the Shenzhou, where they are _expected_ to unwind. It is the very expectation that Michael finds suspect.

Over five years on the Shenzhou, Michael came to the conclusion the simpler task lends itself to relaxation the most; the bridge tour Januzzi and she perform every morning; her flight simulations with Keyla; the end of their shift with Narwani and the subsequent quiet meal; her talks with Georgiou.

Parties and whoever planned them —superior officers, ambassadors, families— intend to foster an environment in which people can be seen being _people_ , not themselves, but people in attendance, in company, in society. They are taking the attendants’ pulse.

If the way people behave in company is also part of who they are, it is not everything they are. They are not more themselves with a glass of geldian liquor in hand than they repairing a replicator that exploded over breakfast.

_“Somebody has been tasting my porridge,” the captain sang, but before Michael could answer a hand wiped away the compote from her cheek. She felt her skin burning._

Michael did not enjoy the party because of the casual atmosphere filled with fluttering music or desert root liquor, but because of the way it made her so keenly aware of those in her company, Philippa and the doctor.

Michael’s idea of fun last night was being outside the Shenzhou, lumped together with “her people” in the Warden’s words, as if the crew was a separate species in itself, regarded by the Geldian as codified and—

Georgiou is staring at her, eyebrows high on her forehead.

“I lost you, haven’t I?” she whispers and her quiet laughter feels like another blanket around Michael. Philippa would never laugh at her, merely at her own inability to answer to people’s expectations. But letting Philippa believe she was not paying attention to her friend’s state is a source of shame, and doubly so when the subject of Michael’s distraction is still nebulous to her.

Thankfully, the dark is keeping the secret of Michael’s embarrassment.

“For someone who says they don’t enjoy parties, you are awfully contemplative about them.” Philippa’s lips curve into a candid smile. “I apologize again for dragging you here, Michael, but the Geldian do not look kindly on species with prescience of any sort and I needed a commander to come with me.”

Michael knows this but offers a grateful nod.

“I did have a good time, Captain. I find the Geldian to be fascinating, and accommodating, despite their uncomfortable sleeping habits that they share with _such_ generosity.”

Georgiou snorts, turning her head away from Michael to prevent a louder reaction.

One of the sleepers shifts in the dark, attracting Philippa’s attention to the interior of the palace, and she positions her back against the rail to look at the delicately crafted doors. Her elbow, wrapped in the rich fabric, brushes against Michael’s side and Michael’s index instinctively reaches out before withdrawing.

Michael looks down, stunned by her own body, caught reaching out for… something.

“Uncomfortable habits and customs are half the job, and half the fun.” Georgiou’s voice drops, intonation a harbinger of secrets and Michael’s eyes abandon her fingers, wanting. Their illogical behavior has gone ignored or unnoticed by her captain.

“I once held a parley in the middle of a pool.” The base of her nose wrinkles with playfulness, pride lifting her chin. ”Swimming suits were not considered proper and the water was steaming hot. Half the negotiation consisted in getting our interlocutors to let us attend in soaking wet uniforms. To say it wasn’t pleasant would be an understatement.”

Michael tries to picture the scene, a younger Georgiou, drenched and grave, but her mind keeps on drifting to the woman beside her, not a memory but a real, disconcerting pressure against her arm.

Warm. Grounding. Too close.

“You said half the fun.” Michael absently reflects. “I fail to see where the fun was.”

“Admiral Katrina Cornwell, then Lieutenant, was leading the negotiations. My aide was a former classmate who left Starfleet since to teach sailing. We were in a strange place, among strange people who expected us to fail. But we were together.”

Philippa takes a deep breath, her focus no doubt escaping to gentler times, although Michael cannot imagine anything gentler than this night or her voice in the half-darkness.

The day is painfully slow to rise on Geld and eternity unfolds between Michael’s slow thoughts, an eternity staring at the changing sky and her captain’s face, the reflection of dawn on the varnished wood and her captain’s face, night and her captain’s face.

Michael cannot disagree with the power of togetherness; presently, she feels its attraction, anchoring time and space in a way that bends the laws of reason and physics. It feels like running toward the horizon, circling a notion.

Philippa is at the centre of her thoughts.

Michael’s lips tremble at the revelation, tightening around her speechlessness. This could be merely a result of this night, of familiarity and lateness. The Shenzhou, to the Geldian, had been a species. Philippa, to Michael, is a…

She does not know.

“Philippa, may I be blunt?” Her voice is even as not to alarm the captain, the use of her first name generally saved for pressing matters. Philippa turns her full attention to her, eyebrow teasing.

“You may be whatever you want, Michael.”

“Is it how you would characterize belonging somewhere?”

“Being with people you care about despite the unfriendliness of the environment?” Her head tilts at an odd angle and the drape uncovers part of her shoulder, the deep blue of the uniform purple in the raking light. “You’ve been mulling over this.”

“I have been cataloguing the people and places I have encountered for the past five years.” Michael focuses on the strings of thoughts raveled by weariness, the sensation of comfort in her chest, the need to understand revealed by the late hour, the last hour. “I was anticipating to be drawn to some more than others and to be filled with a sense of loss when leaving them. It never came.”

“You’re wondering if you are going about it wrong?”

“I am _doing_ this as it should be done. I am trying to understand why it is the Geldian can go on at length about belonging in their forests and deserts while Nambue knowingly nods and I do not.”

“You are taking the example of a species that has been voluntarily cut off from the rest of the galaxy for most of its history and a man who applied to a dozen different citizenships in the past five months because he liked the _food_.”

Michael tightens the fabric around her body, mentally cursing the lag of her brain.

“I mean to say that Vulcan is technically my home; yet I do not miss it like Narwani does her childhood garden. Earth is like a _fairytale_ to me, an abandoned home, formative but distant, unrelated to the world I live in. The Shenzhou is but a ship, a seasonal nest.”

Georgiou furtively frowns before her dark eyes peruse Michael’s face, infinitely gentle, and Michael lets her.

“What does ‘home’ mean to you, Michael?” Philippa’s forehead creases with a mix of curiosity and challenge that Michael remembers from their first aborted handshake.

_“This can be your new home, if you want it to be.” The Shenzhou was sturdy, lived in, colourful and Michael had to admit how reassuring its beeping and whispers sounded. A human ship was still a ship._

“Familiarity, security, continuity, from the outside to the inside,” Michael readily answers. “A sense of comfort and unity. On Earth, my father used to say it was a place that changed us more than we changed it.”

“Your father was a poet, but not a mason.” Philippa chuckles. “What you describe sounds more like family than home.”

The answer stuns Michael into silence for a while. Home and family are related, their definition inextricable. The late hour is no excuse for words confusion, but she is certain the terms chosen encompass what she feels home is, which is probably why her definition was inaccurate in the first place: home has a meaning beside what it _feels like_. Yet she immediately thought of her late father, his memory, his imprint on her, before a place of residence, a social unit, a familiar setting or origins.

_It feels like family._

Philippa’s eyes are trained on her, kind and patient, not exactly waiting, but listening to her silence, and her thoughts are unbound.

“What do _you_ call ‘home’, Captain?”

“I don’t have your certainty, Michael. It isn’t such a source of questioning for me. Although you disrupted the peace here.”

Michael opens her mouth to protest, but the captain’s gaze on her is a silent indication she is not finished.

“It’s all right. There is no sole way to live on a ship, as there is no sole way to claim or define a home. This was probably the point I was trying to make. Nambue feels at home anywhere, but ask Detmer and she will answer with a German word our computer cannot render.”

Philippa’s tranquil fussing with the drape comes to a standstill and a hint of mock horror passes on her features.

“Come to think of it, she might have been pulling my leg.” Her grimace is an endearing mix of carelessness and outrage. “Sorry, Number One. I think the moment we have a definitive answer about why we interact with places and people the way we do, we will stop growing. And exploring.”

Her friend did not exactly answer, but Michael does not probe. Her questions are a mean to prepare her own thoughts, for her to formulate her doubts and for Philippa to receive them, a process Philippa has tacitly accepted years ago.

Philippa never shows signs of annoyance when Michael goes to her with such inquiries. Whether what motivates her is a desire to help Michael reacquaint herself with her human legacy or to let blossom the comfort between them, Michael cannot tell. She enjoys how harmless her doubts appear when placed in Philippa’s hands, how soft and promising.

“I have found the question to be incredibly distracting at times.” Her voice is tentative, but Philippa’s dark eyes are nothing if not encouraging. “Our crew travels with the memory of home as a root, and it is where they belong, yet the Shenzhou is also their home. The Vulcan response to these concerns feels like an exoskeleton to me. Something grafted onto me and that has become me, but is still external.”

Georgiou peers at her with renewed intensity, shifting her weight on her foot and leaning away from Michael.

“Exoskeletons can be grown by the species itself, am I mistaken?  It’s not necessarily an add-on.”

“I cannot tell if it is mine, Philippa.” Her words are almost a plea.

The captain takes a deep breath.

“Do you _want_ this Vulcan exoskeleton to be yours?”

“Yes, but it is part of _me_ . I feel as if what many cultures call ‘home’ is for me nothing but myself, _my_ exoskeleton, _my_ shell. A structure inside me, but not a place. I find belonging to anywhere but within myself hard to grasp. How is that so?”

Her captain falls silent for a moment before answering, eyebrows knitted in concentration, chin against her chest. Michael is grateful for the time she takes to consider a reasoning years in the making. When Philippa speaks, it is with a deliberate slowness, giving weight to every word.

“I could say that you have seen so little of the universe and that you will have to wait because some answers take time, but it would be condescending. If I’m being honest, I feel it myself, Michael, and I am _not_ young.”

Michael adamantly shakes her head and is rewarded with a sideways, pointed, glance.

“Perhaps not as keenly perceived, and not as eloquently expressed, but I do feel it. So it is not merely a Vulcan reading, but something else, in you. I have seen many planets that I could call home, sometimes did, met people with whom I did build a home.”

The avoidance of _people I love_ is loaded and Michael feels something frustratingly vague bite into her heart.

“I don’t feel I belong there. But I know where I stand within myself. Like you. I try to see this incongruity as a resource, a hearth to feed and look into. Maybe the state of not belonging keeps me going. Maybe yours is only temporary, something to build on. Do not worry about it more than necessary, Michael, you do have time to cultivate an answer about what ‘belonging’ is, _we_ have.”

As she finishes speaking, her hand grabs Michael’s shoulder, gentle but firm, in an attempt to ground her. She looks at Michael closely, signifying this is the most articulate answer Michael would get out of her for now, even if the subject is not exhausted and the discussion not closed.

Philippa’s hand lightly trails down her arm, relinquishing it too soon, and Michael keeps a window open in her mind, a small thought about how Philippa is a companion in wandering and home is a work in progress: it is a satisfactory conclusion for tonight. She can tell by the warm and safe feeling that she observes within herself, letting it suffuse her weariness, softening her unease. Perhaps belonging within oneself is not so bad after all. She can live with that if her captain inhabits this uncertainty.

“Thank you, Captain,” Michael murmurs with a nod, meaning it, and Philippa chortles in answer.

“You always say that and come back a day after with an excellent answer that proves you had no conversation to thank me for in the first place.”

Philippa bobs her head in disbelief and a teasing smile appears on her lips.

It must be around 0600, on two hours of sleep, and her glee is nothing short of spectacular.

_Not young, really?_

“I am now picturing you with a shell and oh, Number One, how grateful I am for the image. But you are not a turtle. You are… a pangolin.”

“Pangolins would not be a good analogy,” Michael blurts out, “they have scales, not shells. I would suggest some species of clams or shell-fishes as their internal structure—“

“I know you love taxonomy classes, but a palace’s balcony at twilight while wrapped in alien ceremonial pajamas isn’t the place, time or uniform to indulge.”

Michael quirks her eyebrow.

“Would a pool be more suited to this discussion? I am sure we can find one.”

“Don’t tempt me, Michael.” Philippa is smirking, mischievous.

They drift into a comfortable silence, only disturbed by the creatures awaking in the gardens below and the sound of the fabric around them brushing against each other. Now bathed in dark red, the woods begin to fill with soft ruffles and warbling, and Michael heaves a contented sigh.

A creature yowls at length, probably a marsupial as this planet is home to a wide variety and this call bears similarities with that of the desert opossums they encountered on their way to the palace. Perhaps, in the morning, and with tact, when the Royal Warden is awake, she could persuade them to open the gardens to her. The captain would surely accept to accompany her, if she is not asleep.

The possibility of a stroll in the gardens after Philippa’s implicit promise not to let her wander alone with her questions prompts joy to soar in her chest, uninvited and free, soon capped by a thought: this was not the first hand extended, touched, hold, escaped between them. Nothing came out of it.

_Should something come out of it?_

_Is there more to desire than synchrony, challenge, companionship?_ She has her captain’s respect and her friend’s trust; her work on the Shenzhou is fulfilling and enjoyable in great part due to Philippa. Every second of the time she spends with Philippa, each smile the captain returns is a renewal of her Starfleet commencement speech.

At all times Michael keeps her mind sharp with chess, her body strong with running, her heart firm with knowing Philippa. In her case, a firm heart is one showing care, tending to the softer emotions in her, the more irrational impulses, but after six years on the Shenzhou Michael has learned to  acknowledge how helpful those can be. Philippa is part of her regimen, of her life, and she enjoys her life as it is. There is nothing more to hope for.

Her eyes are drawn back to the captain’s lips, her profile in rest, the quantifiable beauty of her features, the concrete result of their familiarity on her demeanor, and, again, Michael can only thank the dying night for the cover given, the dancing shadows on the walls for Philippa’s distraction: her cheeks feel disturbingly warm for a trail of thoughts she deems calm and collected.

She is no fool. Early on and from afar, an overly invested Amanda had identified a _crush_ on the commander, which Michael characterised as _curiosity_.

Michael had moved bigger mountains; she worked through it, argued her distraction into indifference and parsed her drive into control and dedication. Protocols, cultures, propriety, her own comfort dismissed the fancy for her. As time went on and ranks climbed, the process of becoming a trusted crewmate, an adviser, a sparring partner, even a confidant smoothed over the initial illogical urges.

They became —they _are_ friends. Circumstances dictate what Michael would dare to call “tenderness” between them and something thrives, greater than Michael could have suspected when she first stepped on the Shenzhou five years ago. The characterisation of that _something_ is eluding her.

Philippa told her on five occasions, twice before Michael became her Number One, how treasured their friendship was. Yet there is a course to their relationship, an evident curve, that she cannot define and measure in knowable terms.

_Heisenberg's uncertainty principle._

The position and the momentum of an object cannot both be known with precision. The exact nature of her feelings and their intensity elude her, but their presence is undeniable, their effects sensational. The faster she runs towards Philippa, the more difficult it is to determine where she is and the more precisely she can tell where she stands, the slower she seems to go toward her aim.

She is caught motionless before her captain, never close enough, or in a moment of immense speed, everywhere at once. She could be on her lips and she would not know.

_Got you._

A shiver of apprehension runs down her spine. What does she do with an urge to be intimate? Zeno lost an arrow to this fight. She cannot lose a friend to it.

“Do you have to?”

Michael almost jumps. Philippa’s voice is so small that Michael could doubt she heard it at all had she not seen her lips move and she saw them, staring as she has been.

“I’m sorry, Captain?”

“Do you _have to_ find out you belong somewhere, Michael? Surely logic argues against the existence of a home, it is too irrational a concept. Most urges are.”

Michael gasps, audibly, thrown out of her reflections, into Philippa’s. She seeks the captain’s eyes for an explanation, but the upper stories, bright orange now, have her complete attention.

“Human culture has often demonstrated its propensity for settling,” Michael hesitates. She never exactly questioned the need to belong; her inability to settle it did not prevent her from accepting its existence, as the curvature of Earth is not evident to those standing on it. “Even at the height of its push for exploration. Home is _not_ a mere concept.”

Philippa hums, the corner of her mouth twitching ever so slightly.

“Human culture now? Interesting.”

“I am _human_ , Captain, of Vulcan.” Michael huffs. “But finding a habitat has been prevalent in many cultures, sometimes at the cost of logic, like the need to reproduce or better society.”

In her mind, there is no contradiction in her nature, although others spent a great deal of time trying to explain to her how there is. She is _both_. The issue has always been that the world around her is not.

Images of her first days in Sarek’s house creep into her mind, the unfamiliar smells and sounds, the panic she felt as she understood this will be her home, but never her parents’, Amanda’s touch —she touched her so much, hugged her so much then, why—, the logistics behind every one of the gestures keeping her alive and well then, and Michael takes a deep breath to still the dance behind her eyes. Finding her home, fitting in, then, had been her only horizon, her life belt.

“The existence of an anchor, hypothetical or past, is crucial to exploration.” Her tone is laced with an involuntarily rawness she regrets immediately. Philippa surely has not missed this, but her comely profile is still lost to the geometric stones above.

Avoiding Michael.

“Many cultures on Earth have enjoyed nomadic life and a path of exploration, Michael. In a way, their home was much larger than ours, we of the stars, but Earth was still home. We wouldn’t be here on this ship if Humans had stuck to their propensity for staying.”

“The expeditions you are thinking about have been undertaken so that new settlements could be founded. New homes, Captain. “

“And founded they were. We kept on searching. I said I don’t have an answer but, in your words, _this_ is where I belong. In the search. Not behind me, not ahead, not within. On a bridge. And lying to myself about such a thing as ‘home’ that I would miss or build.”

Michael furrows her brows. “Lying?”

“There is a certain kind of people, not a race, not a culture, but scattered individuals across time and space that will not miss home and will mistake any longing for a desire to settle. The longing is what drives them. They will keep on going, because no planet, no language, no love will hold them long enough to become home.”

Michael gives her a disapproving scowl, discerning the incongruity of the words in Philippa’s mouth and waiting for the clarification.

“That’s what my father used to say when I kept never returning home. He wanted to paint it as a curse.” Her sigh is overlaid with laughter and her expression hardens into a striking, bare mask of hurt. “Little did he know this would be a guideline.”

_This will not do._

She cannot specifically put into words why it vexes her. Logically, being raised in a culture that was not her parents’ and was so dissimilar made her feel the ambivalence of home acutely. Such a statement that no definitive place, nowhere, will become home has been clinging to her skin since she lost her parents. Home can be many places and none, it is not new; it is a state as natural to her as living on a spaceship —not the kindest of circumstances for a humanoid, but she has artificial gravity, she has practice: logic and whatever grew in the interval between her brain and her heart, her shell, sustain her.

Her heart breaks at the realisation.

From what she read, what she guessed, what she discussed with Philippa, it appears her friend does not have that shell.

It is a humbling thought; Philippa is Captain Georgiou first, graduate of the Laikan Military Academy, recipient of the Star Cross and the Legion of Honor, holder of the Distinguished Flying Cross for her crossing of the Evgueni Solar Storm, respected by Betazoids and Tellarites, in the same room.

Philippa is without home second.

Michael tries to make her words as soft as possible, calling upon Amanda, calling upon Philippa herself.

“Do you want not to belong on a bridge, Philippa?”

The side-glance is laced with irony and a certain pride, for Michael’s question, for the answer forming in her smile.

“I _regret_ the stars and what they take from me. I _fear_ what they command me to do. I love them still and there is no place in the world I would rather be.”

“You said there is not a sole way to live on a ship,” Michael whispers in a breath as if understanding just now her words from earlier. “This is yours.”

“I never said answers came with satisfaction, did I? Home is not familiarity, not safety—”

“Certainly not when the east corridor floor tiles keep giving way under the crew _walking_ on them.”

Philippa’s laughter is sincere, even if timid, promptly stifled as she glances at the sleeping party a few meters away.

“It is an assignment, with mess hall falling apart and people coming and going. It is hardly the comfort of someone’s arms. But then, people should not be home.” Philippa’s tone becomes blunt, a hint of fear straining her features, and her frame, arms clutched around her middle, wrapped in the intricate fabric, looks brittle.

A fragile Philippa is wrong.

Michael has never needed to touch someone in her life more, to wrap her arms around her and ground her. In this instant, she understands hugs were conceived as a way to stop bodies from crumbling because it seems like Philippa is doing exactly that.

Quietly, with grace and concern for Michael above all, but, still, crumbling.

“Michael… Beware of people who trap you, who say you belong with them, who need to make you stay to become something greater. You don’t need to close doors to be safe, to stay for their love, or comfort, or power.”

There is bitterness in her voice, the admission of defeat, as if the desire to protect Michael was held  back. Turning her head, her eyes dig into Michael’s, the line of her mouth fierce and uncompromising. But instead of searching, she seems to be reaching deep into her, bestowing confidence.

“You are the only person responsible for your happiness and your own path, not others, not a place or an organisation. You deserve to be given everything in this world, but you should not be afraid to take it as well. Belonging within yourself is not a fault, not when you are as strong, brilliant and kind as you are, Michael. ”

Her intensity takes Michael’s breath away for a moment and she is left to stare at her friend's face, a stark emotion showing there, before she can mutter a stunned “I— thank you.”

There is enough weight in her mouth, like lead, vulnerability on her shoulders, for Michael to discern just how important this is —this will be—, but her mind is transfixed.

There is not a soul on her ship for whom Philippa would not fight tooth and nail, her impassioned pep talks often sought and sometimes recorded for posterity. Notably reserved when it comes to her personal life, she bared a lot of her inner life to Michael tonight, for her, the famed losses typically  painted as the hero’s scars confessed as desertions and shortcomings. Her openness is an invaluable show of trust and fondness, and Michael does not know how to connect it to her own feelings towards Philippa.

Philippa shakes herself, giving Michael a knowing squint, her bowed stance an indication of apology and she pushes her body away from the railing, silently suggesting a walk on the deserted balcony. Michael follows her, matching the familiar stride, grateful for the recess given to her thoughts.

Philippa’s lilt, when she speaks again, is livelier than before. “There is worse home than the stars, Michael.“

“A selfish way to look at exploration.”

“Is it? Stars don’t love back and I don’t have to feed them.”

“You are talking about a dog.”

Michael drinks in the grateful _grin_ that blooms on Philippa’s face. Her captain’s dog is familiar territory, the equivalent of a joker for tense situations.

“Says the woman who chose the stars to find people with shells, like her.”

“I was… _curious_.”

Most decisions in her life were taken out of curiosity and there is nothing more beautiful to be curious about than the stars, or people. She never suspected curiosity could be a culture, travelling a place, but she is happy with the discovery.

“With your talent you could have landed a position in any prestigious university. You really could take us further and faster than anyone took us from the confines of a lab.”

“Your lab is not too shabby. I think I can promise we will go far.”

Philippa’s musical laugh carries them until the angle of the palace, overlooking the gates that connect the dark esplanade to the gardens, and they halt, beholding view of the shimmering domes of the city beyond the sea of trees.

Maybe Michael did enter space to find people. Maybe her desire to see a thousand worlds was born when in Sarek’s home she could not sleep in her new bed. Maybe it was the way her mother told stories, as if they were maps to another system. Maybe it was her joy at feeling at home in Sarek and Amanda’s home after a while, the possibility for peace in a strange place. Maybe she escaped Earth then Vulcan because, even as a child, she could sense home was not there. Maybe, rather than not belonging, she found an invitation everywhere, on every face. Maybe she never went into the stars in the hope of finding an answer but more questions and challenges. There is comfort in knowing that, having lost everything, she could always rebuild elsewhere, with somebody else.

Geld’s sun is hitting Philippa’s face at thirty degrees, painting her eyelashes bright orange, the curve of her nose and lips, her iris and revealing their balance, their history, their familiarity: she is weary, but at ease with showing it to Michael. The bun at the base of her neck, without pins, unrolled on the rich fabric, splaying curls between the luminescent arabesques and creating overlapping arcs, approximation of circles and paths.

_Zeno’s arrow._

Tenderness overtakes Michael, wholly: she may struggle to find, to define, home, but for now all signs point to her instantaneous speed being the rhythm of Philippa’s heart, her position to be at Philippa’s side. This is a fact, not a permanence, but something exact, in this instant, in this place. Home is not exact, but some feelings are, absurdly.

And the captain’s inability to see it is a bit illogical.

“I have a counterpoint…”

Philippa offers her a curious frown, seemingly startled by Michael’s commitment to this line of conversation.

Michael’s brain gets crowded with arguments as to why, as to how she could make this truth known. She wishes she could explain in very plain terms the Warden’s “your people”, the superimposed image of young and older Philippa, the rhythm of her breathing in sleep, the evidence of her by her side when home is not evident. She wishes she could translate to Philippa how Philippa feels to Michael.

She is human, she is tired. It in the end, it all boils down to five words.

“May I kiss you, Philippa?”

Philippa’s _okay_ comes out as a tenuous breath, curiosity rather than astonishment speaking. Michael’s request came without a precise destination and Philippa seems to dive headfirst into the uncertainty.

Michael leans in and places a kiss at the corner of Philippa’s mouth, caught between the warmth of her lips and the sweetness of her skin, the best of both worlds, between flesh and soul, between friendship and something else that she finds herself at peace with tonight.

_Belonging. In motion. In-between_

She hopes Philippa gets it.

Philippa’s lips part slightly with a gasp, sucking in Michael’s breath, turning into her mouth. Her nose brushes against her hot cheek, and Michael knows she picked the spot perfectly. Heat starts to pool in her lower abdomen as she takes in everything happening in those two centimeters where their breaths are mingled. If this is the last time she is allowed to approach her captain, she wants to record every parameter she can measure; eyelashes brushing against hers, the scent marrying sebum and dew, the curve of her lips.

Philippa does not retreat immediately and Michael’s hands claw deeper into her ribs, almost to the point of pain, and when she cannot hold onto them and stop them from flying to the black waves, Michael leans back, eyes wide, awaiting the reprimand.

The glint in Philippa’s eyes, so catching in the complete darkness, has softened into a tired glaze, gently layering the colours of dawn on the black irises. Her captain’s face shows neither anger nor surprise, but affection, so ingrained, so soft it looks the result of sedimentation, old, solid, layered.

_So, this is what was under._

The sky is stupendous, but Michael has no idea. Not when Philippa, her captain, her friend, her _to be never defined_ is looking at her like that.

As Philippa calls her name, softly, her tone goes up and down, the same way it had when Michael accidentally sprayed them with water on their last shore leave. Michael takes a breath, gathering the threads, before a perfection of symmetry, now scattered, that supported her gesture.

“I am aware this is not the argument you expected. I overstepped boundaries, but this is the best case I can make for a home, right now.”

“This should not happen again.”

“It will not.”

Michael studies her face attentively, searching for the reproach she cannot locate in her voice or her stance. Shroud open, arms at her side, Philippa seems oddly relaxed, although holding Michael under the same scrutiny. Did the kiss ever happen? As proof, she has two centimeters of her lips on hers that left a print tenfold the size on her heart. She could map that breadth of skin.

“If I had known it would elicit such a quiet rebuttal I would have kissed you earlier,” Michael murmurs to herself.

It takes Michael all of her strength to tear off her stare from the captain’s agape mouth and drag her eyes back to the brown irises, swimming with wonder. Whatever was troubling Philippa, it has been shifted and Michael cannot help the pride forming in her chest.

“As much as I am flattered by the ‘argument’ you made, it doesn’t change my position, people are not home. Certainly not antique like me.”

“My foster parents were born forty years apart; this is not an appropriate remark, Philippa.”

“So isn’t kissing your superior officer, Commander.” There is no bite in her tone.

“This is no office romance. This was a postulate.”

Philippa glares at her, before crossing Michael’s path and leaning back against the railing, arms open on both sides. Michael can recognise an invitation when she sees one.

“It was a confession, Michael.”

“You did not recognize it as such, so this will remain a postulate. Take it as a hypothesis. Something to build on.”

“Our policy regarding fraternization exists for a reason.” Her tone is not even one of chiding. Intrigued, Michael settles beside her, waiting for any answer that is not formal. Shock should have showed up by now, but only quiet acceptance is on her face. It looks like Philippa is teasing her.

“I understood and accepted it before making my point. I am not asking for anything tonight. I was providing an answer to your doubts about home.”

“What answer was that exactly?”

She wishes she knew beside _I wanted you to experience how good it feels to work every day close to you in space._

“Something about the difficulty to define velocity.”

Philippa looks at her with disbelief before bursting out of laughter.

Seized with uncontrollable and loud hiccups, she dives headfirst behind Michael’s shoulder to try and shield the sleepers, her shoulder nestled under Michael’s clavicle. The contact is short, rather brusque, packing the pent-up tension of the conversation and whatever deep and long-running question accounts for her earlier speech. Philippa moves back against the railing, tugging at the lopsided shroud, seemingly having forgotten what happened mere sentences ago. She reverted immediately to their old physical comfort, earned at the cost of many other uncomfortable away missions.

Michael cannot contain her beaming smile and Philippa has the decency to purse her lips, apologetic.   

 _I know us, the way we work together._ Michael heaves a sigh of relief. It does not complicate anything. Her observations of the way she expresses fondness for Philippa, unchanged for many years now, reciprocated on many occasions, disproves the possibility of her actions tonight changing their relationship.

“This will not go exactly in the direction you hope,” Philippa whispers once she has calmed down, taking the gardens below, fully awake and brimming with animal activity. ”I trust you understand that?”

Michael nods, although Philippa is greatly overestimating how calculated her move was: a brain that is sleep-deprived and drawn to her captain’s lips does not go as far as “direction” or “hope”.

“Thank you though.” Philippa turns her head back, her eyes serene and soft on Michael. “For your words, for your trust, for your… confession. I know how important a step it is for you and I hope to reward you for it. I’ll take the definition of velocity, yours particularly, and will run as far as I can with it, if you allow it.”

The impact of her words is inescapable, as much as her gaze, and Michael responds in kind, with her eyes and smile and face as open as she can manage. Through the geldian fabric, uncertain fingers start grazing her side. The gesture is soothing, usual between them after a difficult mission, but it feels different now, with Philippa’s eyes locked into hers and the memory of her lips on her heart. It seems she is waiting for a permission.

“Thank _you_ , Philippa.”

“Don’t. Not yet. It’s not even a promise.”

“I know. It is a vanishing point.”

Philippa comically widens her eyes.

“Michael, you are lovely, but you have to stop using such metaphors, it borders on esoterism.”

Michael cannot help laughing, her elation quickly distracted by the contemplation of Philippa’s face and the need to preserve this moment. The relaxed features, their weariness, their display of love must be a reflection of her own and anticipation bubbles in her chest. They do not quite have the privilege to wait for their situations to change and she should not be waiting for a heart to change either, but they are together on the Shenzhou and they know what it means for now.

Remarkably, against logic, she understands why Philippa was so afraid earlier. Amanda had argued, early in Michael’s placement on the Shenzhou, that the fascination for her captain came from how exemplary a specimen of humanity she was.

Amanda was wrong. Philippa challenges Michael because Michael has no clue why, out of all the species, Human or not, she encountered and catalogued, Philippa reads like an entire world, one to explore, learn its language and build something in. Her whole being challenges Michael’s double mind and double heart. Michael does not care about home or belonging when she has worlds to explore. Yet, people should not be worlds, should not be home.

_I think I am content with what she gave me tonight and I will disappoint her. For now, she is difficult and lovely; I am satisfied._

Rummaging under Michael’s shroud, Philippa takes her hand, still warm from the hearth it occupied between her ribcage and her elbow. Michael’s heart drops between her fingers.

“Come on, we should get at least a couple more hours of sleep. I don’t want for the attendants to catch us on the balcony.”

Philippa’s skin has never been this soft and thin under hers. It not the first time she took her hands —she is a tactile commandant—, but it is the first time she did after getting a confession of sort. The feeling of reassurance is solid, identifiable, exact, hitting Michael in the chest with an unusual intensity.

Michael follows Philippa into the dark, dumbstruck, savouring the feeling of her palm in hers, but as she loosens her grip to return to her spot among the sleepers, Philippa holds onto her and leads them to another part of the room. There, oblivious to the journey Michael and Philippa went on, Nambue is contentedly snoring between the angular frames of two of their Geldian hosts.

Philippa kneels in a space barely large enough for her, holding out her other hand to Michael, waiting. The light through the wooden patterns makes a puzzle out of her face, but the smiling eye, the tender mouth, the playful cheek are inviting, within reach, real.

Michael gives her a questioning look.

“This has always been your place. Stay with us? With me. There’s calculation to be made, but, Michael, the argument you made was a good one. I trust you with my life, I think can trust you with whatever happens next, if something happens next.”

Solemn, Michael gets down on her knees and curls up on the floor next to Philippa, so close she can hear the sound of her lashes brushing against the shroud pillowing her head. Philippa lets her eyes linger on Michael before closing them, calm.

“Try to sleep, Michael.”

_Unlikely._

Philippa is grinning.


End file.
